


Dr. Singer or: How Crowley Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Rotgut

by Serpentsign



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Gen, M/M, relationship status: drinking and bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpentsign/pseuds/Serpentsign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has had a bad week and Bobby doesn’t need a reason to get drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Singer or: How Crowley Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Rotgut

There were some days when Bobby considered Crowley to be the biggest pain in his ass. Days like this one when Bobby would walk into the kitchen and find the demon sitting at his kitchen table, looking like shit and sulking. The king of hell would deny it until he was blue in the face, but he was sulking. And he did look like shit. It seemed Hell wasn’t just a stroll in the park, and even took a toll on the one running the show.

“I swear they’re doing it on purpose,” he sighed, “what am I talking about? Of course they’re doing it on purpose.” Demons. It was always the demons. Crowley hated them all, conveniently forgetting he was one of them, always separating himself from his own kind with seething words and insults.

“Trouble in paradise? Who would’ve thought?”

“Some compassion, if you please, Robert?”

“Forget it.” Bobby grunted,” Got some pick-me-up in the cupboard though.” He offered, because why change a well-tried practice?

“Any chance it doesn’t moonlight as rubbing alcohol?”

“Look, princess, if you wanted the good stuff you shouldn’t have come here. Do you want some or not?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose but let Bobby fill his glass anyway. A quick sniff, another grimace and then he threw his head back, offering a rare glimpse of the pale neck above the black shirt collar. He set the glass back down with a measured, yet forced movement as his whole body seemed to shudder, the muscles on his neck twisting and his face scrunching up in disgust.

“If anything, I feel even worse than before.” He rasped.

“Don’t worry about that, in a few minutes you won’t feel anything at all.” Bobby informed him. He poured him another glass and waited until that one was empty as well, before he set about joining the demon in what, judging by the determined look on Crowley’s face, was going to be a very long night of heavy drinking.

Sometime later, how long Bobby couldn’t determine unless there was a standard conversion from two bottles of rotgut and half a really shit merlot to actual time, Bobby was wondering why he’d ever been angry with Crowley at all. Sprawled on the living room floor, Crowley at most managed to be vaguely annoying and potentially life-threatening. He continued to try to and scratch away the paint of the devil’s trap on the floor, no matter how many times Bobby swatted his hand away with a muttered “I might need that sometime”.

“I made it into a queue, you know.” Crowley said suddenly, after a brief but lively discussion on how to raise dogs.

"What?"

"Hades." 

“You made _Hades_ into a queue?”

“A great, long queue with all the wicked little souls. Oh, they hated that.”

“The souls?”

“The demons. Demons are old fashioned; take away their favourite toy and they throw a temper tantrum. Just like daddy.” Crowley sighed wistfully and took a gulp from his glass before starting to loosen his tie in order to remove it.

Thoroughly distracted by how the shiny silk fabric caught the light as it slipped between Crowley’s fingers, only vaguely registering how the demon stumbled on words as he prattled on about exactly how stupid most demons were. It sounded so much like any whining about work Bobby had ever heard, except most people tended to whine more about crappy coffee and considerably less about having to trip over body parts and get hellhound drool out of their clothes.

What struck him most was the normality of it all. They had certainly talked before, well more of arguing. And they’d drunk together as well.

But never like this, with their shirt-sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone while sitting on the floor, resting their heads against the sofa.

The next morning wasn’t as much fun.

His head hurt, a pounding pain behind his eyes and temples. He must have fallen asleep on something because his back felt as if a herd of angry elephants had trampled all over it. He was also missing a shoe.

Someone groaned. Bobby cracked one eye open and followed the line of the arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. Another groan; a raw, pained sound muffled thanks to the fact that Crowley seemed to be laying face-down on the sofa. At some point in the early hours of the morning, Crowley had claimed the sofa as his own and thrown Bobby and the blanket off. The blanket was bunched up under his back, which explained the pain.

“What fresh hell is this?” Crowley wasn’t moving at all, still talking into the sofa cushions.

“Mornin’ sunshine.” Bobby tried, his voice rough and grating.

“Not now, Robert, let me die in peace.” Bobby snorted at that and let his gaze sweep over the mess around him. A large number of bottles were strewn on the floor, Crowley’s jacket had at least made it to the back of a chair while his tie lay crumpled in the corner. Bobby’s cap was perched on top of a pile of books.

There were some days when Bobby considered Crowley to be a friend.


End file.
